Summer Season
by brumal
Summary: Sitting here on top of the roof, listening to the leaves imitate the rush of the ocean, all I can do is think. Think and try to keep everything away from myself; Close my eyes and watch the sky spin.


**Beta-read by Nadramon.**

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Today, he's back after so much training, and I must admit, though a bit grudgingly, that I'm glad. I'm glad that he's back. He's changed, but not really. He's still so enthusiastic and happy. And unfortunately, he's still perverted. But what is one to expect when he has trained with one of the, possibly, most perverted men in Konoha?

But that is not important right now, and perhaps nothing is.

They say I'm very smart and sharp. Always have been in my classes when I was younger.

But even one as sharp and witty as I cannot tell the difference between "nothing" and "everything." Perhaps nothing is important, or if you fancy, everything is important right now. To me, I don't care. To me, all this is… is a nice cool night.

Now is the beginning of summer nights when it's still warm enough to be able to sleep without a blanket and with the windows open, but not warm enough to make your back stick to the bed at night. It's not dry to the point where you can feel your lips crack with each word you speak, but not so unbearably humid that you feel like you're suffocating with every breath you take. It's a crisp, clean feeling. So late right now, and most of the residential lights are off, reducing the light pollution that would otherwise render the stars impossible to see. It's a wonderfully lucid night today. And I love it.

I sit here, on the roof of my house, quietly swinging my legs back and forth over the edge. The red tiles are still lingeringly warm from today's sun. Mom and Dad are undoubtedly asleep. They don't know where I am. Next to me, I have brought a picture frame. But I am not looking at it now. I crane my neck up towards the heavens (but do they really exist?) and inhale deeply.

That picture has been with me for many years and I still look at it every day. If only life really could be captured in tiny rectangles of colors like a photograph. Albeit the fact that only two of us look happy, I truly miss those days. Days where innocence was still on the verge of being shattered, but not yet broken. Days where minds were strong and stubborn and unwilling to give up…. Days where love was a teary confession and hate was an insult.

Tonight, I sit here and wonder if those days would ever return to me. And sadly, I truly doubt it. I feel homesick even though I _am_ home. Where is my home away from home, I wonder? I don't think I'll ever find it. Not when everything is in such turmoil and nothing is certain. It was like treading on ice—frozen then thawed, then frozen again to make the illusion of solid ground. But of course, once you step on it you'll crack through that thin illusion and freeze away.

With cool hands, I pick up the cooler frame and trace the occupants with a short, unvarnished nail. (After all, to be a ninja you don't need perfectly manicured nails. What would pretty nails do in a battle? Break?) Everyone in the picture has such a glassy stare, completely oblivious of everything except that snap second of existence. What will happen later? I wonder if we ever thought of that in that short instant of living.

I smile lightly, sadly, and blink away the dryness in my eyes. My hands tighten as I look up at the silent sky again. Around me, I can hear the comforting, soft din of life. A wind blows by and the forests surrounding us willingly wave and twirl their branches, making the leaves quiver and tremble. The rustling sound, I was told, is a reminiscent noise of the ocean. Crickets proclaim their being and birds chirp murmuringly into the quiet. It's almost normal. But I want to cry.

I feel my heart clench and hurt and my stomach feels as if I just dropped down from an extremely high bough from a ridiculously tall tree. But my eyes are dry, and I can't feel anything anymore. I close my eyes firmly, feeling my eyelashes press lightly on my cheeks and my eyes burn awfully from the dryness. And I remember.

I remember the days we passed, doing missions under the blistering sun, walking dogs, weeding gardens. And I? I watched them all, bicker and fight, tease and chastise. At those times, I didn't feel like I fit in anywhere, only an awkward attachment required to make a "team." Perhaps then, I was simply an observer and not a participant. But I still remember them with a jagged pang of pain.

But what about now? What am I now? Still an awkward attachment? I can't tell.

Because it has not even been a day since he has been back… And gods, whatever gods are there in heaven, only know when my other love will be back.

It feels comforting to know that at least one of the loves in my life has returned. And now, I only can wish and hope that the other one will change his mind and return to me as well.

It was like finally seeing day again, but not knowing if night would ever return.

The need to know if night would ever come almost drove me to the point of insanity. It almost made me want to stare at the sun until my eyes hurt and bled, just so that I could close my eyes and see the flash, blue-red shining of what could be the moon.

Slowly, I open my eyes and place the frame next to me on the roof carefully. I spread my arms behind me and lean my weight backwards. I don't know how long I've been sitting there with my head tilted up like a child watching raindrops fall from the sky, but the stars have changed and spun around. They look different, but still the same.

Are we so as well?

Are we the same, but look different? Is everything that we need simply a tilt of the head or a rotation of the body? Then can we still see the same thing we saw so long ago?

And suddenly, I feel a presence approaching me, from behind. I almost turn around and look, but decide not to. It is not as if I do not know the person.

The footsteps are light, touching down on the tiles softly before springing onto the next one. Soon, someone is standing just behind me.

He doesn't say anything or do anything, but I can't be sure. I still haven't turned around to see what he is doing. Slowly, out of my peripheral vision, I see him sit next to me and lean forward with his arms resting at his thighs. Another summer wind picks up and it threads its fingers through our hair, as if teasing us with a lackadaisical cheerfulness.

Together, we don't say anything but watch as the stars continue their lazy journey around the sky. After a while, he straightens his back and takes side-long glances at me. I can't be certain, but I think his lips are pressed together firmly and his eyebrows are furrowed slightly. And yet he still does not turn to face me, and neither do I. We both (stubbornly) stare straight ahead, as if we don't know the other is right there.

And although it is a nice early summer night, I finally feel my arms get goosebumps and my hands grow cold. Night was whispering awa the tendrils of heat, leftover from the afternoon.

I sensed it first before I felt it—the warmth of another hand being placed onto my own. I shift my weight back to my right hand so that my left would be more relaxed. I feel him tuck his fingers under my palm and squeeze gently. Under normal circumstances… I think I would have punched him and pushed him off the roof. But tonight, I only allow him the slight indulgence to hold my hand.

He doesn't say anything for a long while, but sit there and share his warmth with me.

I can't feel his thoughts travel to me, like some stories write. Nor do I feel like I should fling myself against him and sob, like some movies act. Nor do I feel like his presence brought upon me a sudden and amazing revelation, like some dramas proclaim.

I simply feel his being and that's enough for me.

Finally, he does speak, with a soft voice. It broke at the beginning, as if he hadn't spoken for hours and hours but he pays no heed to that.

To me, it's still a childish voice that has the light hints of innocence and childhood. Granted, it's deeper, but still familiar. Just a lower tenor that what I used to hear. It's warm, like his hand, and comforting.

And when he says it, I feel as if some barrier to apathy and empathy was opened and I was allowed the privilege to finally _let go_.

"Everything will be okay, Sakura…"

And I start crying and crying and crying.

And I didn't know if I could ever stop… or if I ever did.

But I simply cried and clutched back on his hand.

And somehow, it truly did feel like everything would be just fine…

Just like another night in the early summer season.


End file.
